The debt i owe

 

She knocked 

at my door,  

around eleven past nine.

Till 7, 

It seemed

like another Sunday evening,

passed by cluelessly 

like aridity is just another habit now,

Usual, 

ordinary,

unnoticed,

learned and re-learned, everyday,

unworthy 

of any attention

 any more.

She had been alarming, although,

me of her arrival

with a bit of an un-surity in her tone, 

Yet it seemed like, she visited,

unalarmed and unexpected.

and sooner than i imagined.

Although it was me, at 15 past seven that evening

that invited her,

to come quickly, 

in a bit of a desperation,

i accept.

but

I did not expect

she would come

and stand by my door 

in less than an hour,

and knock.

But she came, and 

she knocked.

It is true

in the beginning, 

a part of me wanted her to stay away,

a part of me wished 

on not living this day,

Maybe that is why 

in only so many ways, 

I tried to cancel, tried to delay

our meeting,

And all those times, 

that is why, I tried to drive her away.

To be honest, she seemed scary,

sometimes a little, sometimes a lot

but when i thought about her this lonely evening,

The thought of her, seemed like the most peaceful thing i've got,

divine and beautiful, a hint of serenity,

Yes, these past few weeks i had been thinking of her a lot, 

Suddenly she was prettier to me than ever,

even though it seemed like wanting her now was a crime,

But just this one moment, in half a consciousness

and half a breathe,

i could truly appreciate her,

in all her beautiful ways, 

Just this one time.

And I wondered to myself 

what was so haunting

about her 

anyway 

that scared me off

all this time?

that I tried so hard

to overlook

my developing infatuation for her,

That i passed by her in hallways so many times,

 and deliberately looked away,

Maybe it was those few times,

my hands shook, 

as my trembling voice asked her to come over just for tonight,

and stay.

Yet the waitings and the longings never paid off,

because She never showed up, 

maybe she sensed the unsurity in my voice

until today.

Or maybe,

it was simply how the others 

would potray,

her 

as malicious

and mean, 

and problematic,

in all the names 

they called her.

Or maybe it was

simply her name 

anyway,

'Death', her name. 

Oh,

her beautiful name.

And Despite what they made her 

to be, 

That breathless evening, It was only she,

who offered me breath, 

in this lonely time 

of pain

and of struggle ,

in this lifeless box,

compact and of stone,

She offered me the key 

It was only she,

who offered me life.

The touch of her,

serene and divine

With her hand stretched out

In these desparate times,

She knocked at my door

around eleven past nine.